


Meat

by Augenblickgotter, OldBeginningNewEnding



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: ABSFZ, Cannibalism, Dark Crowley (Good Omens), Human (?) Crowley, Human AU, Human Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Murder, Sort Of, Wendigo, Wendigo AU, Written for A Big Spooky Fan Zine, hi i'm back at it again with dark fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:23:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27579107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Augenblickgotter/pseuds/Augenblickgotter, https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldBeginningNewEnding/pseuds/OldBeginningNewEnding
Summary: After days of wandering the woods, a starving Aziraphale finds a campsite and helps himself to some meat cooking by the fire.Crowley is more than happy to let him eat his fill. Crowley tends to him, hand-feeding him as Aziraphale collapses from exhaustion.But it's only later that Aziraphale gets an inkling that Crowley isn't what he appears to be and all that meat has to be coming from somewhere...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 93
Collections: ABSFZ Halloween Good Omens Works





	Meat

**Author's Note:**

> Big spooky fan, me~ 
> 
> Written by OldBeginningNewEnding and lovely art by Augenblickgotter

After the first day of admitting that he was terrifically and terribly lost within these winding woods, Aziraphale comforted himself with the thought that he couldn’t have wandered off _that_ far, and that he should know the marker’s location better than anyone. It would only be a matter of time before he found it.

After the second day of getting terrifically and terribly lost, Aziraphale suffered tragically from the suffocating reality that he had, indeed, strayed too far from the paths _._ He also knew he wasn’t doing himself any favors in traversing deeper and deeper into the woods with an empty stomach and a dry tongue.

The third day found him scouring for a river, a stream— any clean, moving water source—straining his ears against the perpetual quiet between wind-whispers and the occasional mocking trills of wildlife. He trudged onwards, feeling eyes watching over him with cold, indifferent glares as Aziraphale drifted further and further from where he began.

The fourth day found him by a tiny creek, the salt in his tears mixing with the taste of fresh water on his parched mouth and cracked lips.

The fifth day, he found a miracle.

He found a camp.

* * *

He saw the smoke rising from the edges of the treelines; a delirious, fragile joy bubbled up within him as he stumbled from his knees after taking heavy gulps of the cool forest waters. He hastened through the wood, eyes trained to the sky, chasing the possibility of rescue, of salvation.

Further and further into the forest he went, the billowing grey wisps overhead pulling him forward until the gut-churning aroma of cooking meats engulfed his senses. His pace quickened impossibly, pangs of pain tearing themselves into his stomach as his hunger consumed all rational thought.

((It was all his poor stomach had to gnaw on for quite some time, after all.))

He found the clearing, found the raging fire, and most importantly, found the roasting food. The meat glistened beautifully, oil dripping down the makeshift skewers, browning and charred at the jutting, ragged edges where the flames licked at them, and tenderly rare where they had yet to be turned.

The first thing he ought to have done was call out for the owner, ask for help, ask for _permission_ —

But Aziraphale was so _, so_ hungry.

* * *

The first bite exploded with flavor in his mouth and the intensity almost made him heave. He forced his teeth down, grinding at the sinew and tearing through the muscle. His mouth burned and blistered where the scalding food touched, but Aziraphale found that he no longer cared. He swallows down whole chunks in his haste, feeling the fire-bright heat sear down his throat, but his hands were already reaching for another, another, more, _more—_

“Making yourself at home, I see?”

Aziraphale continued on eating, the curl of shame in his gut wholly drowned out by the pitiful emptiness that wounded him for days. 

He at least managed to turn, to greet the fellow by the adjacent tent. He’d meant to say, and to some capacity, even managed to garble out, “I’m sorry,” and “I was lost for days,” and even, “Please don’t be angry, please _help_ —”

But perhaps the most intelligible thing he croaked out of his tired, scalded throat, was “ _I was so **hungry**._”

The stranger considered him for a second—just a second—before he nodded. There was an exaggerated, caricature of concern on the pout of his lips as he hummed. “Understandable.” He stalked to where Aziraphale stood, seeming to appraise him as he circled around the fire. “You’ve been lost in these woods for quite some time, yeah?”

“I’m _so_ sorry—”

“It’s okay,” he soothed, voice soft and—strangely sympathetic. “Would you like some more?”

Aziraphale nodded, knowing exactly how he looked: haggard and filthy from where he’d stumbled and slept on the forest floor, his hair matted, and face smeared with dirt and meat drippings, tears streaking down his cheeks at this stranger’s kindness.

“I’m _so_ sorry,” he bleated, a sickness coming over him, a flash of nausea, an uneasy turn in his belly as the food settled in, his stomach uncomfortably tight after being empty for so long.

The stranger only hummed, an understanding in his eyes, a secret in his smile, as he held out a dripping slice of meat.

* * *

* * *

Aziraphale drifted in and out of focus, fatigue and hunger overtaking his body, fragments of the present coming and going as the kind stranger set more meat to the fire, as the stranger wrapped him in a heavy blanket as Aziraphale shivered and trembled with his entire body, as the stranger pressed against him, solid and warm, as something within Aziraphale crumbled and collapsed.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there, the stranger cooing quietly to him, ushering, “ _It’s okay,”_ in hushed, comforting tones as he brought piece after piece of warm meat to his lips, stroking his back indulgently as Aziraphale ate from his hand, saying _“I know what it feels like to be starving.”_

((And maybe, just maybe, if Aziraphale had a bit more of his strength, a bit more lucid, he would have noticed the stranger looking— _just_ looking. Looking at him like he was something precious, something that needed be to taken care of, those oddly glowing eyes of firelight almost gleaming against nightfall.))

* * *

_He dreamed of a creature in the woods. It hid behind the trees and stalked among the shadows as Aziraphale wandered further through the wood, looming closer and closer—horns pointed, teeth sharp, and eyes aglow— **monstrous,** and oh, so, very **hungry** —_

* * *

Aziraphale drifted in and out of consciousness for the next few days, his hunger sated and thirst slaked as— _Crowley—_ tended to him while he slept off the exhaustion.

((He didn’t remember the stranger introducing himself. He only remembered calling out a name— _his_ name—and Crowley turning to him with a smile.))

His clothes were stripped and washed as he slept, his own body scrubbed raw from a wet rag until the filth and grime fell away from his skin. Aziraphale found little to be embarrassed about in this situation—there was little room for shame amid his circumstances. There was only a marrow-deep fatigue that left him crawling under the covers of the sleeping bag or huddled to Crowley’s side for warmth as the winds howled and the forest shrieked outside the tent.

((But whenever he came-to, it would be quiet again. The woods always were.))

And always, _always_ , he would awaken to the smell of smoke and burning meat, and sometimes, the metallic scent of a fresh kill.

(( _It’s strange,_ he mused, now that his thoughts were no longer left gnawed and hollowed by starvation, _Strange that I never once heard the killing shot break through the silence in the woods._ ))

* * *

When he would wake, there Crowley would be, ready to feed him with kind, patient eyes, and a sharp smile that somehow never met them. He would always feed Aziraphale by hand, not caring of the oil that dribbled down his chin and blanket, not caring of the mess Aziraphale made as red ran down his mouth as his teeth tore through fat and muscle.

Crowley would always bring more—as much as Aziraphale wanted to eat, _could_ _eat_ , until his gut grew heavy and his eyelids drooped. 

Aziraphale supposed he ought to feel grateful.

Grateful for the food, the shelter, the company—

Yet there was something primal within him that recoiled as Crowley sat between him and the tent’s only exit, something tugging at his hindbrain with little scritches and scratches to his threadbare instinct at the sharpness of Crowley’s teeth or the eerie glow of gold in his eyes; something there in the marrow-deep chill that racked his body in tremors no matter how many blankets Crowley set atop him, no matter how much his skin burned from the contact as the other man pressed against him; something there in the _ravenous_ appetite that clawed at his insides that always left him hungrier and hungrier with every sliver of flesh that passed through his lips.

 _Something is wrong,_ the winds whispered, echoing back into the stillness of the woods.

But Crowley merely hushed him and laid his worn body down to rest.

* * *

_He dreamed of Crowley that night. Dreamed of him with impossibly sharp teeth, glowing golden eyes, and a crown of bleeding antlers atop his head._

* * *

Aziraphale awoke some hours later. 

It was nightfall. Crowley ought to have returned by now. Aziraphale sat up and strained his ears against the discomfiting silence for whatever roused him from slumber. He held his breath as the sound of _something_ grew closer and closer.

It was the splintering of fallen leaves and the crunch of dirt as something heavy was dragged across the camp.

Aziraphale waited—waited for a ragged breath, for heavy footfalls, for any telltale sign of _someone_ dragging the heavy thing on the ground. But just as it approached the tent, the sound petered out.

It was quiet again.

((The woods always were.))

And Aziraphale could do little more than clutch the blankets closer to him, hoping it would stifle the erratic beating beneath the cage of his ribs.

After some moments, a dull thud against wood echoed through the tiny clearing, again and again in repeated, practiced rhythm. Aziraphale let out a shaky breath. Of course. It—it was only Crowley. Perhaps he felled a small tree and dragged it to the camp for kindling to feed that ever-gluttonous fire—

But that didn’t explain the smell of iron in the air, the faint _squelch_ of something soft before the blade struck the solid wood.

((That didn’t explain why he never heard a set of footfalls.))

 _A fresh kill_ , he thought distantly, a sudden lump forming in his throat as curiosity overtook him. Aziraphale had never seen what kind of game Crowley hunted, never stopped to think what this strange man in the woods hunted with just a knife and experience.

There was a sliver of light from the half-zipped mouth of the tent. Blearily, Aziraphale reached out, trembling fingers peeling back the weather-worn plastic as blood pulsed in his ears.

Crowley sat by the fireglow, his handsome profile illuminated by shades of reds and oranges. Some of that red splattered across his face as he diligently chopped and hewed away at the meat with a sharp, gleaming blade.

Aziraphale stared, transfixed at the sight, and he dared not glance down at the figure by Crowley’s feet.

The one huddled and lifeless, wrapped in a hiker’s jacket with its face all red too.

* * *

Aziraphale fled.

When morning came and Crowley’s footfalls faded behind the veil of endless stillness in the woods, Aziraphale clambered out of the tent and slipped between the trees in the opposite direction. Fear nipped at his heels, snaking through the branches and roots at the thought of what happened in that clearing, of _Crowley_ , and just what kind of game he was hunting.

He didn’t stop until nightfall.

Aziraphale laid his head down to rest as his body ached and his insides howled and churned as sleep overtook him, the guilt of his sins finally catching up.

* * *

_He dreamed of meat. Tender, succulent, warm, and **beating,** melting in his mouth and red running down his chin as he devoured more and more until he was fit to burst—_

_Aziraphale felt his skull crack open. A split erupted at the crown of his head, twin prongs of ivory-white jutting out._

_It grew heavier and heavier as he continued to feast—unable to stop even as his back bowed from the weight of his sacrilege, his face all red before the flesh he consumed, before the fire that consumed him._

* * *

Aziraphale awoke before dawn. He stood unsteadily on his feet and continued on in the dark and didn’t stop until he stumbled through dirt and gravel and eventually, _impossibly_ —

Asphalt.

He wandered the roads, vision blurry with sweat or tears, hope or despair in his gut until he spied headlights encroaching closer and closer. He waved them down with fevered relief, standing in the middle of the road and waving his arms like a madman as he screamed and cried, cursed and prayed.

The car slowed and a door opened for him on the passenger’s side.

* * *

“How long were you lost?”

“A few days, I think.” Aziraphale squirmed under the fluorescent lights. The coffeecake in front of him laid untouched. “I…I was lost for around four or five days before I stumbled onto his camp.”

“The same peculiar character out there in these woods?” he asked with a pointed brow, exasperation bleeding into his voice.

Aziraphale swallowed. “Officer, I think he might h-have—hurt someone. Very badly.”

A stern frown. “Could you identify the victim?”

Aziraphale cursed his cowardice. He bit back the hot flush of shame that burned inside him. “Not their face, no.”

The officer gave a noisy exhale. “Could you identify what they were wearing?”

“A hiker’s jacket. I couldn’t see the brand. It was dark green and black, I think. With a checkered sort of pattern.” He shriveled under the officer’s empty glare. _“I’m sorry,”_ he whimpered. “It was very dark.”

The officer continued to glare him down, silently, critically.

Aziraphale took a breath. _In and out_ , reaching as far back as the memory could go of that night. “She was a brunette,” he whispered with a trembling voice. “With long, long hair.” Tears prickled at the back of his eyes. “She was _so_ young.”

_He tried not to think of the little coat, left on a branch in a forgotten clearing._

The officer nodded impassively. “We’ll do a search around the area for this character. Was it near where one of our officers found you?”

“No, I—I had been traveling for about a day out in those woods before I found the main roads, and after then I walked for…for quite some time until I was found. I—I can try my best to take you there—”

_Tried not to think of his cowardice as he fled the forest instead of searching._

“We’ll do a thorough sweep of the area,” he ~~dismissed~~ reassured.

Aziraphale tried not to wither on the spot. “Right. Of course.”

_Tried not to think about the countless others that met their fate deep within those woods—_

“Sir, why were you out there in the woods to begin with?” he prodded.

_Tried not to think about just how **close** to death he’d been—_

Aziraphale flinched. “My cousin…my cousin lost his boy to these woods. A few years ago. He stopped tending to the—the place where they found him.” _What was left of him._ “He and his wife couldn’t bear it. And I…” He gave a thick swallow. “I just wanted to pay my respects.”

_Tried not to think about just where all that meat was coming from._

“You ought to be more careful,” the officer tsk’d, opening the door for him. “These woods take more and more of them this time of year.”

_Tried desperately not to think of the meat Crowley fed him that morning._

* * *

Aziraphale returned to an empty bookshop, an empty kitchen, and an empty bed. He stripped the clothes off his back and burned them in the hearth. When that was done, he stood under the spray of the water until his skin pruned and nearly bled raw at how he scoured off the dirt, the memories, the feeling of fat and juices dribbling down his mouth and staining his skin.

Afterwards, he vomited bile and acid, blinking tears out of his eyes as he sought to purge himself of everything that had happened.

He hated how his stomach ached pitifully in hunger.

* * *

He slept like the dead.

Dreamless, black silence as soon as his eyes grew weary in his bed, cozy beneath his covers. A veil fell over him where time ceased and all else faded away to quiet shadows.

Yet each night, he awoke outside his home—to the sight of the open night air, the glittering of stars, and a horizon speckled with trees, a little ways off from the edge of town, a little ways off from the edge of the woods.

Each night, he picked himself back up and trudged to his home, relocking each door tight and placing the barricades of bookshelves back where he placed them hours prior. He’d sit by the hearth, a book in his hand, but his eyes trained on the flicker of flames until morning peeked through the windows.

* * *

During the days, he frequented his favorite restaurants, bustling bistros, and quaint cafes that surrounded the locale of his bookshop. Friends, businessowners, and familiar staff sent him dishes piled high with his favorites at no extra charge for all their relief and joy at seeing their dear friend and customer return.

But as Aziraphale ate and ate, he found that the greens, breads, cheeses, and cakes could not satisfy his ravenous appetite. The rich flavors and herby spices dulled on his tongue, and as Aziraphale swallowed, he felt his own insides writhe with hunger.

((He dared not eat meat. Dared not _look_ at it. The mere smell of it made nausea drown his senses, made bile rise to his throat.))

As always, he’d leave a generous tip, an empty plate, and a delighted _Absolutely scrumptious!_ to the waiting staff, though his words echoed as hollowly as his stomach.

* * *

Despite his shaky testimony, the police did comb through the woods.

Day after day was met with disappointment as nothing turned up. Not a tent in a forgotten clearing, not a man with red hair, honey-golden eyes, and sharp, sharp teeth, and not once did they catch the sight of smoke poking out between the treetops or the aroma of cooking meat.

Rumors stirred the small town and once eyes were on Aziraphale— lonely, quiet Aziraphale, who’d managed to let Francis’s little boy scarper away from him all those years ago, who tangled himself in those woods, and emerged from behind the trees a strange, changed man just as the disappearances peaked and suddenly dropped—

Well.

Maybe it was time for Aziraphale to disappear too.

* * *

The city thrummed with life, fast-paced with little patience for a small-town man and his antiques and antiquated books.

Aziraphale managed, somehow. Sheer force of will, some would say.

Sheer force of desperation too, perhaps.

The blaring horns, the rubber tires screeching against the roads at all hours of the night, and the ever-present glare of city lights poking through his curtains became a thing of comfort during the midnight hours. The cheap and greasy fast foods were hardly palatable, but well…whatever was sandwiched between those soggy buns hardly counted as meat anyhow. The parks, too, were hardly the grand, sprawling forests he’d lived near all his life.

((He still avoided them, however. Walked quickly without once turning his head to the trees and the creatures that could be hiding between them.))

Sleep came easier and easier, but he never did dream. And for that—for _once—_ he was grateful.

.

.

.

When Aziraphale opened his eyes, it wasn’t to the smoky smell of city fumes, the grey beams of a dreary morning, or the water stain glaring above him from his ceiling.

It was to the sight of the open night air, the glittering of stars, and a horizon crowned with trees.

He sat up, a dread sinking into his blood, blinking back tears and biting back sobs—and _listened._ He held his breath as the sound grew clearer and clearer.

The woods were still—

((They always were))

— but the crackling of fire filled the gaps of silence.

The growls from his stomach joined in the tuneless chorus as he turned and found Crowley sitting there by the flames, looking to him with that same mocking sympathy. Their eyes met. Aziraphale wanted to laugh. Wanted to cry. Wanted to scream.

Crowley stoked the flames and it was only then that the delicious, _sickening_ aroma greeted his senses. His mouth began to water, his stomach twisting and gripping and clawing at his insides, as Crowley looked to him with those firebright, gleaming eyes.

He held out his hand, a sliver of raw, dripping meat in his palm and the last thread of Aziraphale shattered as he devoured it— fear, desperation, panic, and _hunger_ wracking his body as he cried, _howled_ into Crowley’s embrace.

 _“Such a messy eater,_ ” he crooned, reaching for another piece that he happily fed to this poor, lost creature.

((The creature he’d taken for his own.))

 _“But that’s all right.”_ Crowley’s lips lifted at the edges, the sharp points of his teeth gleaming in something _almost_ like affection as he indulged his newest creation, his crafty little mate who tried so valiantly to escape him. To escape what he’d become.

((To escape what he had done.))

But that’s all right. Crowley was a forgiving fellow and he made his choice just as Aziraphale made his. And he’d take good care of him.

_“I’ll never let you be hungry ever again.”_

* * *

_A creature found a wand’ring lad_

_And picked him for its own,_

_Gave him gifts of gold, its hand to hold_

_And all manner of silks and stones,_

_Ignored in cruel happiness_

_That he only wanted to go home_

* * *

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Poem is a spin on WB Yeats's "Mermaid" 
> 
> I'm over on [new-endings on tumblr](https://new-endings.tumblr.com/) if you'd like to say hi~


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